


got the real thing

by smallredboy



Series: love you like that [1]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Autistic Greg House, Foster Care, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Married Couple, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Trans Greg House
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-11-14 10:43:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18051005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/smallredboy
Summary: House brings up kids to his husband.





	got the real thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MysteryWriter36](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MysteryWriter36/gifts).



> okay so the timeline is a lot fucked up in this universe; in _when nothing else matters_ i've set it post mayfield, but the doctor in charge there wasn't nolan. mainly because i really like nolan and i want this to be house and him's first meeting.
> 
> anyways, here's another installment of the leah 'verse. fills a prompt from my bf, who i gifted this to.
> 
> enjoy!

House can't sleep. 

Wilson has him tucked in, his arms wrapped around House's middle, keeping him there, his eyes shut tight. He looks in place, simply put— he's sleeping soundly and all House can think of is what he wants, what is missing from being House and Wilson. 

There's nothing like being with Wilson. Everyone else exhausts him— everyone else is ridiculous and tiring and annoying. Chase is too obedient, Foreman is too defiant, Cuddy has power over him, Cameron has the hots for him. He really just can't win with any of them.  

But Wilson— his best friend of twenty years. His partner of six years. His husband (his  _ husband _ ) of four years. As soon as Stacy left, they'd started dating, and two years later they were walking down the aisle in the most discreet ceremony they could possibly have. 

“Wilson,” he says. He's given up on sleep for now; he taps his arm four times. After a few minutes his eyes open and he looks at House blearily. 

“It's late,” he yawns. 

He rolls his eyes. “No way,” he mumbles. 

“Fine.” A pause. “Why'd you wake me?”

“I can't…” he trails off, swallows. Wilson presses a kiss to his jaw, ignores his stubble as much as it's hard to ignore. “I should have told you a long time ago, but…”

Wilson's shaken out of sleep and his face goes pale, and House wants to smack himself in the head. He's twice divorced, of course he's thinking this is a sleep deprived ‘I'm not in love with you anymore’ confession. 

But it's not. It will never be. 

So House continues, “But… I want a kid.”

Wilson's eyes widen and he stares. House stares back, trying to ignore how much he regrets saying that as soon as it leaves his mouth. It's true, after all— even as he had unsafe sex with strangers and took the plan B pill afterward just to make sure, there was always a  _ longing _ inside him. 

No one expects Gregory House to be fond of children. No one expects Gregory House to be just a little kinder to those small humans finding their place in the world than to anyone else. Maybe it's his unresolved childhood trauma, that makes him want their world to be a little kinder than his own at their age. 

“You want a kid?” Wilson echoes, confused and pale and  _ tired _ . 

House gulps. There's something in his husband's face— his brain is tinkering, trying to come up with the best answer, the most malleable solution for why in the hell would House want a kid. 

“Yeah,” he replies, pulling his hand away from Wilson's usual embrace.

Wilson pulls him back in, kisses the bridge of his nose. “Okay.”

House blinks. “Okay?” he echoes. “No more questioning than that? No _I thought you hated kids_? No—”

“House,” he starts, giving a squeeze to his side. He shuts up. “I did think you hated kids, but I’m not about to question it. I like the idea. A lot.”   
  
“You do?” 

Wilson yawns and kisses his forehead. “Yeah, I do. Try to get some sleep on you, you deserve it.”   
  
“I’m not tired.”   


He scoffs and after a few seconds House gives up. All that kept him awake was the nagging information of I want a kid. When he went steady with Stacy, for the longest time he thought that maybe that was it. Adopting or fostering or hell even getting a surrogate for his girlfriend. But then it all fell apart— but it can’t fall apart with Wilson.

What if it does? His sleep-deprived mind asks, but he ignores it. He can’t let himself think like that. He needs to live in the moment for once, he needs to take what he’s given. He needs to be happy for one goddamn second, goddammit.

He falls asleep curled up next to Wilson, his head rested on his husband’s chest.

* * *

“So, of course, pregnancy is out of the question,” Wilson starts that afternoon, while they’re eating takeout.

House’s head snaps up and he blinks. He had almost forgotten telling Wilson his secret. He shrugs. “I mean, can you picture Chase’s reaction when he realizes? That’d be  _ hilarious _ .”   
  
Wilson rolls his eyes. “I meant because you’re forty-seven.”   


“I still could.”   
  
“It wouldn’t be safe for the baby!” 

“If it comes out with something wrong, great, one more thing in common,” he deadpans.

Wilson scoffs and finishes his food, putting it away so they have a more serious conversation. He does that before every discussion that matters, that isn’t back-and-forth snark. House finishes his too and puts it away, next to Wilson’s leftovers.

“So,” Wilson starts, looking at him with those intense deep brown eyes of his. He’s beautiful, all clean shaven and his nose and House impulsively reaches to tap his arm three times. I love you, it means. He’s never been good at saying it, so he resorts to that. He smiles a little and nods. “So,” he repeats.

“So?”   
  
“I…” He swallows. “We’re married. We could get into the foster system.”   
  
House’s eyes widen. “But they’ll recognize my name. They know I’m an asshole—  _ everyone  _ knows I’m an asshole.”   
  
“An adoption center will recognize your name, too.”

He falls silent for a second. “Surrogacy… it’s not an option.” He pauses. “Babies are sensory hell.” He lays his hand down and starts stroking his jacket absentmindedly— it’s one of his favorite textures, leather. He’s used to Cuddy sneering at him for him wearing his jacket twenty-four seven, but he doesn’t wanna help it if at all.

“Yeah,” Wilson nods, squeezing his free hand. “I know.” 

House sighs. “You can always use your great manipulation tactics to convince the foster care people to put us in the list.”   
  
He raises a brow and hums. “That’s always an option.”

* * *

An hour or so after Wilson comes back home, House goes up to him with his laptop in his hands.

“Wilson,” he starts, “you  _ have  _ to get us in the foster parent list.”   
  
He raises a brow— House sounds so adamant about it, all of a sudden. “What happened?”   


He shoves the laptop into Wilson’s lap. He looks and squints before his face twists in horror and disgust. Without turning, he grabs onto his husband’s arm and taps. One, two, three. He clenches his teeth and keeps looking through the website, his face paler by the second. 

Wilson puts it away and looks at him. “You want to save one of them,” he says.

“One third,” he says, pointing at the screen. One-third of those children have gone through the same things he did ( _ worse _ things than those he went through). One-third of those children have suffered and they’ll deal with the aftershocks throughout their whole life as he does. They’ll be better at coping, they’ll be worse at coping. They’ll turn to drugs as he did, they’ll get a therapist like he didn’t.

“I know.” Tap, tap, tap. “We’ll get into that list.”   


House pulls him into a kiss as a thank you.

* * *

 

House finds out that getting into the foster parent list is a lot easier than one would’ve previously thought.

He still worries, he still worries a lot— there’s just something about his brand being the fact he’s an asshole and the fact he might house a kid at some point in time. So he still gets himself an appointment to a psychiatrist, says he wants to get a full workup of his psyche.

The psychiatrist is about Wilson’s height, and he’s not what he’s believed psychiatrists and therapists to be— he doesn’t coddle him, doesn’t act way too kind. Nolan’s snarky, witty; he keeps up with House’s train of thought without much effort if any at all— he wonders just how terrifying Wilson would’ve been if he’d gone for psychiatry instead of oncology.

Nolan talks him into talking about his problems, which he guesses is something all psychiatrists do. He wouldn’t know, he hasn’t ever gone to one before— a staunch refusal because of his terrible, paralyzing fear of being  _ vulnerable _ . The only person he can be even  _ remotely  _ vulnerable with is Wilson. 

“Have you considered, Dr. House,” Nolan starts, putting down his pen and looking directly at him, “that you might be on the autistic spectrum?”

House wasn’t expecting that question. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but this wasn’t it. He stares at Dr. Nolan— rather his nose (goddammit), and tries to stop his hands from fidgeting ( _ oh _ ). It makes a bit of sense— maybe a lot of sense— but he doesn't like to think about it. He hasn’t thought about it for years; all the autistic patients he’s had, which he could count with one hand, never left any long-standing effect on him. Not that it mattered, few things that weren’t his upbringing and Wilson and Stacy did.

“Not a lot,” House concedes.

“Well, this is just me knowing you and analyzing you for an hour or so,” he says, “but it makes a fair amount of sense. You have talked…” Nolan looks down at his notes. “Three times about how much you hate change in routine and/or surroundings, started fiddling with your hands or your cane five times, and you have mentioned your obsession with video games and vinyl records twice.”   


“You kept track of what of my things screamed autistic to you?”   
  
Nolan looks at him defiantly. 

He sighs. “I guess you did.”

The conversation continues— useless back and forth, House deflecting, House trying to give hints to how bad his upbringing was, Nolan asking him more about autistic traits he exhibits. It ends by the two-hour mark, and he’s left exhausted and drained. He doesn’t think he had talked personally with someone for two hours ever before.

When he goes to the desk, he decides to make another appointment. Nolan can’t be that bad, in the long run.

* * *

 

“Wilson.”

Wilson looks back from the paperwork in his hands. Cancer kids or foster parent stuff, he’s not sure at this point. “Yeah?”   
  
He leans closer to Wilson, just to be sure. Tap, tap, tap. Wilson taps back.

“I went to see that psychiatrist, right?”   


“Uh-huh?”   
  
“He told me…” he sighs and looks down. He doesn’t know how Wilson will process this information— he doesn’t know if he’ll react well, if he’ll react at all. He keeps his gaze trained to the floor. “That I should get a diagnosis for autism.”

Wilson reaches out again. Tap, tap, tap. He looks up a little.

“That’s great… do you think it makes sense?”   
  
House shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m a diagnostician, I should’ve…”   
  
“It’s ill-advised to diagnose yourself,” Wilson says, pecking him on the cheek. “You’re good. It’s good. I’m glad you’ve got an idea of what might be going on in that brain of yours.”   
  
He laughs a little. “I did always know something was off, but…”   
  
“It’s a name to it,” Wilson provides.

He nods. “It’s a name to it,” he echoes.

He spends the rest of the afternoon leaning against Wilson as he goes through patient files of his patients, throwing jokes and snark, Wilson making witty comebacks every single time.

Nothing changes from the revelation.


End file.
